'.',■ : . . . '■ . 



Fcap. Sio. cloth, 4s. 
SONGS OF INNOCENCE AND EXPERIENCE, 

WITH OTHER POEMS. By WlLLIAil BLAKE. 

Printed from the Original Edition of 1789 — 1794, and 
from the Author's MSS. with a Short Critical Preface. 

" The songs only require to be known to be loved with a tenderness 
and enthusiasm which it is not given to many poets to arouse . . . 
Montesquieu said that he had never known any care which was not 
removed by an hour's reading. One may say of the Songs fo 
Innocence that there are few cares which they are not sure to 
lighten, and few minds in which they will fail to breed happier and 
brighter moods." — Saturday Preview. Jan. 5th, 1867. 

" The admirers of W. Blake as a poet — and they are a rapidly 
increasing number — owe much to Mr. Pickering for this reprint." 
Xotes and Queries, Jan, 26th, 1867. 

" Of all enthusiasts, the painter Blake seems to have been the 
most remarkable. With what a hearty faith he believed in his 
faculty of seeing spirits and conversing with the dead ! and what 
a delightful vein of madness it was — with what exquisite verses 
it inspired him !" — Lord Lytton. 

THE SPANISH BOCCACCIO. 

COUNT LUCANOR; or, the Fifty Pleasant 
Stories of Patronio. Written by Prince 
Don Juan Manuel, a. d. 1335-1347. ' First done 
into English by James York, Doctor of Medicine, 
1868, {containing the original " Taming of the Shrew "), 
fcap. 8vo., 6s. 
" A good and readable book." — See long notice in Saturday Review, 
Feb. 15th, 1868. 

" Don Juan was a soldier and statesman, no less than a writer 
of tales and anecdotes, and his compositions have that air of the 
camp, the court, and the world, which nothing but practical dealing 
with the affairs of men can give an author." — AthencEum. 

" All are lively and entertaining, and singularly free from all such 
grossness as we rind in Boccaccio's, and most other kindred writing 
of the middle ages, fit for everyone's reading, and worth everyone's 
reading, by reason of their wit and humour." — Examiner. 

" We cannot fairly dispose of this important book in a few lines." 
— London Review. 

" In one of them the reader will find the source of Shakespeare's 
c Taming of the Shrew.' In many he will recognise the original of 
modern stories told by Herder, by Christien Andersen, and others. 
The style of these little tales is quaint, shrewd, and very attractive." 
— Morning Star. 

" Wise and witty." — Observer. 
" Vastly entertaining," — Globe. 
A 



Fcap. 8ro., price 5s., uniform with Messrs. Moxon's 
Editions of Tennyson. 

TENNYSONIANA : Notes Critical and Biblio- 
graphical on the Works of Alfred Tennyson, 
D.C.L., Poet Laureate. 

u He has done his work well, and his little book should he se- 
cured by those who would like all the assistance they can get in 
estimating, as they may some day desire to do, the influence of the 
Poet Laureate of Queen Victoria upon his generation, and of his 
generation upon him." — Pall Mall Gazette. 

" This little book is curious and welcome to the student of Mr. 
Tennyson. It has been prepared with sedulous accuracy, and all 
its facts may be depended on." — Spectator. 

" Let us warmly recommend the present little volume. It gives 
nearly everything that can be wanted in the shape of a Tennysonian 
bibliography." — Westminster Review. 

" These notes will be found very valuable to the students of 
Tennyson's poems." — Victoria Magazine. 

u A little volume which we can cordially recommend to those of 
our readers who deem the e growth of a poet's mind an interesting 
study.' " — Notes and Queries. 

Royal 8vo. pp. 478, every page surrounded by an elaborate Woodcut 
Border. Suitable for Christmas, Easter, Baptismal, Confirmation, 
and Marriage Gifts. Price 11. Is. or in morocco extra, by Rivere, 
21. 2s. 

*^* Also a cheap edition, fcap. Svo. 6s. or plain morocco, 12s. 6d. 

BISHOP KEN'S CHRISTIAN YEAR : Hymns and 

Poems for the Festivals and Holidays of the Church. 

u c Bishop Ken's Christian Year,' published by Mr. Pickering, is 
an exquisite edition of a book which would have been welcome in 
any shape. We are all familiar with the beautiful Morning and 
Evening Hymns Full of beautiful thoughts, beautifully ex- 
pressed." — Times, Dec. 12, 1867. 

"It is a praiseworthy collection, and one that is likely to find 
the favour it deserves." — Pall Mall Gazette. 

u So quaint, yet so unaffected ; so gentle, yet so free from effemi- 
nacy ; so glowing to the core with the fire of genuine devotion." — 
Guardian. 

u Every page bears the mark of that thoughtful tender reverence 
which we all of us associate with the name of Bishop Ken." — 
Literary Churchman. 

u It is well worthy to be one of the devotional books of every 
churchman — and we would engage that any one who adds it to his 
or her tray of such books, will find after a year or so, that it has 
won a claim to be veiy near and dear as a companion through the 
Christian seasons." — Churchman. 



BASIL MONTAGU PICKERIXG, 196, Piccadilly. 



®RSg£ttr 



$£dE@^=s^Zva^=2^3fe^ 



POETICAL SKETCHES. 



<-€ga^ 



POETICAL SKETCHES 

By WILLIAM BLAKE 

NOW PIRST REPEATED FROIT THE ORIGINAL 
EDITION OP L783 

EDITED AND PREFACED BY 

RICHARD HERXE SHEPHERD 




LOXDOX 
BASIL MOXTAGU PICKERING 

196 PICCADILLY 

1868 



l< 



K 



^>/ 



■Ql/'za 



/& 



/ 



6 



~~>0 




a 



CONTEXTS. 



"age 

THO Spring 5 

To Summer 7 

To Autumn 8 

To Winter 9 

To the Evening Star 10 

To Morning 11 

Fair Eleanor .... 12 

Song, " How sweet I roam'd from field to field " . 16 

Song, "My silks and fine array 5 ' . . . . 17- 

Song, " Love and harmony combine " . . . 18 

Song, " I love the jocund dance" .... 20 

Song, " Memory, hither come '' . . . . 22 

Mad Song, " The wild winds weep" . . . 23 

Sung, " Eresh from the dewy hill" ... 25 

Song, u When early morn walks forth" . . 27 

To the Muses 28 

Gwin, King of Norway 29 

An Imitation of Spenser 35 

Blind-man's Buff 38 



CONTENTS. 



King Edward the Third 


Page 
41 


Prologue intended for a dramatic piece of King 




Edward the Fourth 


79 


Prologue to King John 


80 


A War Song ........ 


82 


The Couch of Death 


84 


Contemplation 


88 


Samson ........ 


90 




PREFACE. 




\HE period between 1768 and 1783 may 
be described as one of utter stagnation in 
poetry — the low- water mark of the eight- 
eenth century, in no part of it very fruitful in verse 
of a high order. With Mason, Hayley, and Darwin 
installed as the high priests of the Muses, and a host 
of satellites of the Charlotte Smith and Jerningham 
order, pouring forth volumes of mediocre verses, tole- 
rable now neither to gods nor men nor columns — 
feeble echoes of a school which, at its best, drew but 
little of its inspiration from Xature, how welcome to 
the ear are the fresh notes of William Blake, recall- 
ing here the grand Elizabethan melodies, anticipating 
now the pathos and simplicity of Wordsworth, now 
the subtlety and daring of Shelley. 

The " Poetical Sketches," though not printed till 
1783, a year after Cowper's first volume made its ap- 
b 



viii PREFACE. 

pearance, were written, it appears, between 1768 and 
1777 — the earliest in the author's twelfth and the 
latest in his twentieth year. They lay in manuscript 
for six years, before, by the good offices of Flaxman 
and other friends, they could get into print. The 
little volume, which extended to only seventy pages, 
cannot, indeed, be said to have been published. The 
whole impression seems to have fallen into the hands 
of Blake's personal friends : certain it is that it at- 
tracted no notice whatever from the critics. The 
book has now become so scarce that no copy is to be 
found even in the British Museum ; and as Mr. 
Rossetti has confined himself to a few selections, we 
have thought that a faithful reprint of the whole 
from a copy that has luckily fallen into our hands, 
might be an acceptable present to the numerous body 
of readers now awakening gradually to a sense of the 
rare merit and originality of the artist-poet, and form 
a fitting companion volume to the " Songs of Inno- 
cence and Experience." 

Before closing the bibliographical portion of our 
remarks, we must say a final word respecting the 
principle adopted by Mr. Rossetti in his reprint of 
some of these poems in the second volume of Gil- 
christ's " Life of Blake." Once for all, while rendering 
due homage to his genius and rare critical perception, 



PREFACE. ix 

as well as to the great services lie has rendered to the 
fame of Blake, we must firmly protest against the 
dangerous precedent he has established of tampering 
with his author's text. Much ruggedness of metre 
and erudeness of expression he has doubtless removed 
or toned down by this process : but, however deli- 
cately and tastefully done, we contend that the doing 
of it was unwarrantable — nay, that it destroys to a 
certain extent the historical value of the poems. It 
was the growth of this mischievous system which 
prevented the readers of the eighteenth century from 
enjoying a pure text of Shakespeare ; which to this 
day, in nine editions out of ten, gives us a corrupt 
and mutilated text of such writers as Bunyan,TTalton, 
and De Foe, and which has spoilt some of the finest 
hymns in our language. For where is the process, 
once admitted as legitimate, to stop ? It is not every 
emendator who possesses the taste and judgment of 
Mr. Rossetti, and, in a case like the present one, 
where the original edition is almost inaccessible as a 
check, what protection has the reader against the 
caprice or vanity of an editor who does not adhere 
religiously to his author's text ? Mr. Bossetti 
(though sanctioned by Mr. Swinburne) has no more 
right to alter William Blake's poems than Mr. Millais 
would have to paint out some obnoxious detail of 



x PREFACE. 

medievalism in a work of Giotto or Cimabue ; or 
Mr. Leighton to improve some flaw in the flesh-colour 
of Correggio. The duty of an editor, in such a ease 
as that of Blake's "Poetical Sketches," is confined to 
the silent correction of obvious clerical errors, and to 
the rectification of faulty orthography or punctua- 
tion, due either to the lax and uncertain spelling of 
the time, or to the ignorance and carelessness of the 
printer. 

Having spoken this word in season, we pass on 
to the pleasanter duty of examining these poems 
separately. 

Of the opening poems addressed to the four Seasons, 
we may say that the first three, though marred here 
and there by irregularities of metre, have a wealth of 
imagery and felicity of expression worthy of some of 
the finest things in Keats and Shelley and Tennyson.* 
There are lines too in them which stand out remem- 
berable for ever, and haunt the ear with their melody. 
The " Winter," though it opens vigorously, soon falls 

* In the Verses to Autumn we meet with the line, 
" And all the daughters of the year shall dance." 
Is it possible that this beautiful symbol of the months 
suggested to Tennyson the well-known lines in the Gardener s 
Daughter, in which the same epithet occurs ? 



PREFACE. xi 

into the pseudo-Ossianic grandiloquence, of which 
there is also a taint in several other pieces, and the 
last three lines, stumbling and staggering, remind us 
irresistibly of the same incongruous blending of 
sublime and ludicrous images (going on halting feet) 
in Turner's unfortunate " Fallacies of Hope." 

The lines to the "Evening Star" are almost 
Tennysonian in happily-chosen epithet and perfect 
cadence of music : 

" Smile on our loves ; and while thou drawest the 
" Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew 
" On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes 
" In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on 
" The lake ; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, 
" And wash the dusk with silver." 

" Fair Eleanor " — a sort of blank-verse ballad of 
the Radcliffe type of crime and mystery and horror — 
is a somewhat abortive attempt, much in the style 
of some of Shelley's early poetry of the St. Irvyne 
and Margaret Nicholson period — not without lines of 
singular beauty that stand out in relief to the dulness 
and insipidity of the rest. 

But what fitting tribute can we pay to the mar- 
vellous beauty of the six lyrics which follow, and of 
the lines "To the Muses?" We must go back to 



xii PREFACE. 

the Elizabethan period to find such poetry as this — 
if not to Shakespeare, at least to Webster and Fletcher 
and Shirley, at whose pure fount of Helicon the 
young artist must have drunk deep, and not in vain. 
They are simply perfect, nothing more or less : the 
two finest being the song " My silks and fine array," 
and the lines " To the Muses," in the first of which 
the dirge is sung of hopeless love and of desires 
destined to receive no fruition. The latter is a 
lament over the decadence of poetic inspiration. 
Blake never in his maturer poetry (however superior 
in its lofty teaching) surpassed their wonderful and 
matchless melody : if he had written nothing else, he 
could claim a place second to none among English 
song- writers. As it is, he can claim also to be the 
first restorer of our English poetry to the simplicity 
of its prime — to have chased away with his sweet 
music the feeble sing-song of Darwin and the flat 
inanities of Hayley a whole "sunny decade" and 
" g a 7 quinquenniad " before the appearance of Words- 
worth, who was at Hawkshead School " cutting 
eights" on Esthwaite-lake when these poems were 
printed — who was not even born when some of them 
were written. 

In " G-win King of Norway" Blake has caught the 
spirit of the old ballads from Percy's collection, then 



PREFACE. xiii 

newly published. The " Imitation of Spenser" also 
shows his thorough acquaintance with the " Faery 
Queene," the author of which need not have been 
ashamed to have written these fine stanzas. The 
playful lines entitled "Blind-man's Buff" are pic- 
turesque and pretty enough ; full of animation, and 
evincing a noble simplicity of mind and a healthy 
love of honest homely sports. 

In the fragment of an historical drama entitled 
" King Edward the Third" — unequal as it is, and 
full of faults perceptible enough to the most uncritical 
reader — he has not unsuccessfully followed in the 
footsteps of the elder dramatists, whom he must have 
had in view in writing it. There is wanting to this 
piece a certain broad human interest — a colour and 
form and unity ; but in spite of all drawbacks it is a 
wonderful production for a youth of twenty. One or 
two of the characters are finely drawn, especially Sir 
Thomas Dagworth, a soldier to the backbone, bluff 
and plain-spoken and yet kindly — scenting and long- 
ing for the battle. The conversation between the 
Black Prince and Sir John Chandos is thoroughly 
Shakesperian, both in manner and matter. 

We are unwilling to say much of the concluding 
pieces, in which the Maepherson influence is unfor- 
tunately again visible. We need make no elaborate 



xiv PREFACE. 

apology for the less happy efforts of a poet who in his 
best things has hardly fallen short of the large utter- 
ance of the Elizabethan dramatists, the pastoral sim- 
plicity of Wordsworth, the subtlety and fire of Shelley, 
and the lyrical tenderness of Tennyson. 




POETICAL 



SKETCHES. 



By W. B. 



LONDON: 

Printed in the year mdcclxxxiii. 
b 



ADVERTISEMENT. 




1HE following Sketches were the produc- 
tion of untutored youth, commenced in 
his twelfth, and occasionally resumed by 
the author till his twentieth year ; since which time, 
his talents having been wholly directed to the attain- 
ment of excellence in his profession, he has been 
deprived of the leisure requisite to such a revisal of 
these sheets, as might have rendered them less unfit 
to meet the public eye. 

Conscious of the irregularities and defects to be 
found in almost every page, his friends have still 
believed that they possessed a poetical originality, 
which merited some respite from oblivion. These 
their opinions remain, however, to be now reproved 
or confirmed by a less partial public. 









POETICAL SKETCHES. 



TO SPEIXG. 




THOU with dewy locks, who lookest 

down 
Thro' the clear windows of the morning, 
turn 

Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, 
Which in full choir hails thy approach, Spring ! 



The hills tell each other, and the listening 
Valleys hear ; all our longing eyes are turn'd 
Up to thy bright pavilions : issue forth, 
And let thy holy feet visit our clime. 



POETICAL 

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds 
Kiss thy perfumed garments ; let us taste 
Thy morn and evening breath ; scatter thy pearls 
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. 

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers ; pour 
Thy soft kisses on her bosom ; and put 
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, 
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee ! 




SKETCHES. 



TO SUMMER. 

OTHOU who passest thro' our valleys in 
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the 
heat 
That flames from their large nostrils ! thou, Summer, 
Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft 
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld 
With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair. 

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard 
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car 
Bode o'er the deep of heaven : beside our springs 
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on 
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy 
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream : 
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride. 

Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire : 
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains : 
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance : 
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, 
Xor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, 
Kor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat. 



POETICAL 



TO AUTUMJST. 

/^V AUTUMN", laden with fruit, and stain'd 
^<-S With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit 
Beneath my shady roof, there thou mayst rest, 
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, 
And all the daughters of the year shall dance ! 
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. 

" The narrow bud opens her beauties to 
" The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins ; 
" Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and 
" Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve, 
" Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing, 
" And feather' d clouds strew flowers round her head. 

" The spirits of the air live on the smells 

" Of fruit ; and joy, with pinions light, roves round 

" The gardens, or sits singing in the trees." 

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat ; 

Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak 

Hills fled from our sight ; but left his golden load. 



SKETCHES. 



TO WINTER. 



O WINTER ! bar thine adamantine doors : 
The north is thine ; there hast thou built thy 
dark 
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs 
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car. 

He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep 
Rides heavy ; his storms are unchain'd, sheathed 
In ribbed steel ; I dare not lift mine eyes ; 
For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world. 

Lo ! now the direful monster, whose skin clings 
To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks : 
He withers all in silence, and in his hand 
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. 

He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner 
Cries in vain. Poor little wretch ! that deal'st 
With storms, till heaven smiles, and the monster 
Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla. 



10 POETICAL 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 

THOU fair-hair' d angel of the evening, 
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light 
Thy bright torch of love — thy radiant crown 
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed ! 
Smile on our loves ; and, while thou drawest the 
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew 
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes 
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on 
The lake ; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, 
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, 
Dost thou withdraw ; then the wolf rages wide, 
And the lion glares thro' the dun forest : 
The fleeces of our flocks are covered with 
Thy sacred dew : protect them with thine influence. 



SKETCHES. 



11 



TO MORXIXG. 

OKOLY virgin ! clad in purest white, 
Unlock heaven's golden gates and issue forth ; 
Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven ; let light 
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring 
The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day. 
O radiant morning, salute the sun, 
Roused like a huntsman to the chase, and with 
Thy buskin 1 d feet appear upon our hills. 




12 POETICAL 



FAIR ELEANOR. 

THE bell struck one and shook the silent tower ; 
The graves give up their dead : fair Eleanor 
Walk'd by the. castle-gate, and looked in : 
A hollow groan ran thro' the dreary vaults. 

She shriek' d aloud, and sunk upon the steps, 
On the cold stone her pale cheek. Sickly smells 
Of death, issue as from a sepulchre, 
And all is silent but the sighing vaults. 

Chill death withdraws his hand, and she revives ; 
Amazed she finds herself upon her feet, 
And, like a ghost, thro' narrow passages 
Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands. 

Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones 
And grinning skulls, and corruptible death 
Wrapt in his shroud ; and now fancies she hears 
Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding. 



SKETCHES. 13 

At length, no fancy, but reality 

Distracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet 
Of one that fled, approaches. — Ellen stood. 
Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear. 

The wretch approaches, crying, " The deed is done ; 
" Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send ; 
" It is my life — send it to Eleanor : — 
" He's dead, and howling after me for blood ! 

" Take this," he cried ; and thrust into her arms 
A wet napkin, wrapt about ; then rush'd 
Past, howling : she received into her arms 
Pale death, and follow'd on the wings of fear. 

They passed swift thro' the outer gate ; the wretch.. 
Howling, leap'd o'er the wall into the moat, 
Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen pass'd the bridge, 
And heard a gloomy voice cry, " Is it done ?" 

As the deer wounded Ellen new over 

The pathless plain ; as the arrows that fly 

By night : destruction flies, and strikes in darkness. 

She fled from fear, till at her house arrived. 



14 POETICAL 

Her maids await her ; on her bed she falls, 
That bed of joy where erst her lord hath pressed : 
" Ah, woman's fear ! " she cried, " Ah, cursed duke ! 
" Ah, my dear lord ! ah, wretched Eleanor ! 

" My lord was like a flower upon the brows 

" Of lusty May ! Ah, life as frail as flower ! 

" O ghastly death ! withdraw thy cruel hand, 

" Seek'st thou that flower to deck thy horrid temples ? 

" My lord was like a star in highest heaven 

" Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness ; 

" My lord was like the opening eyes of day, 

" When western winds creep softly o'er the flowers. 

" But he is darken'd ; like the summer's noon 
" Clouded ; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down ; 
" The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves, 
" O Eleanor, weak woman, fill'd with woe!" 

Thus having spoke, she raised up her head, 
And saw the bloody napkin by her side, 
Which in her arms she brought ; and now, tenfold 
More terrified, saw it unfold itself. 



SKETCHES. 15 

Her eyes were fix'd ; the bloody cloth unfolds, 
Disclosing to her sight the rnurder'd head 
Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted 
With gory blood ; it groan' d, and thus it spake : 

" O Eleanor, behold thy husband's head 
" Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower, 
" Was 'reft of life by the accursed duke ! 
" A hired villain turn'd my sleep to death ! 

" O Eleanor, beware the cursed duke, 
" O give not him thy hand, now I am dead ; 
" He seeks thy love ; who, coward, in the night, 
" Hired a villain to bereave my life." 

She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffen'd to stone ; 
She took the gory head up in her arms ; 
She kiss'd the pale lips ; she had no tears to shed ; 
She hugg'd it to her breast, and groan'd her last. 




16 POETICAL 



SONG. 



HOW sweet I roam'd from field to field 
And tasted all the summer's pride, 
Till I the Prince of Love beheld 
Who in the sunny beams did glide. 

He shew'd me lilies for my hair, 
And blushing roses for my brow ; 

He led me thro' his gardens fair 

Where all his golden pleasures grow. 

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, 
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage ; 

He caught me in his silken net, 
And shut me in his golden cage. 

He loves to sit and hear me sing, 

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me ; 
Then stretches out my golden wing 

And mocks my loss of liberty. 



SKETCHES. 17 



SOXG. 



MY silks and fine array, 
My smiles and languish'd air 
By love are driven away ; 

And mournful lean Despair 
Brings me yew to deck my grave : 
Such end true lovers have. 

His face is fair as heaven 

When springing buds unfold ; 

O why to him was't given, 
Whose heart is wintry cold ? 

His breast is love's all-worshipp'd tomb, 

Where all love's pilgrims come. 

Bring me an axe and spade, 
Bring me a winding sheet ; 
"^ When I my grave have made 
Let winds and tempests beat : 

Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay. 

True love doth pass away ! 



18 POETICAL 



SONG. 

LO YE and harmony combine 
And around our souls entwine, 
While thy branches mix with mine 
And our roots together join. 

Joys upon our branches sit 
Chirping loud and singing sweet ; 
Like gentle streams beneath our feet 
Innocence and virtue meet. 

Thou the golden fruit dost bear, 
I am clad in flowers fair ; 
Thy sweet boughs perfume the air, 
And the turtle buildeth there. 

There she sits and feeds her young, 
Sweet I hear her mournful song ; 
And thy lovely leaves among 
There is love ; I hear his tongue. 



SKETCHES. 



19 



There his charming nest doth lay, 
There he sleeps the night away : 
There he sports along the day 
And doth among our branches play. 




20 POETICAL 



SONG. 

I LOVE the jocund dance, 
The softly-breathing song, 
Where innocent eyes do glance 

And where lisps the maiden's tongue. 

I love the laughing vale, 

I love the echoing hill, 
Where mirth does never fail, 

And the jolly swain laughs his fill. 

I love the pleasant cot, 

I love the innocent bower, 
Where white and brown is our lot 

Or fruit in the mid-day hour. 

I love the oaken seat, 

Beneath the oaken tree, 
Where all the old villagers meet, 

And laugh our sports to see. 



SKETCHES. 



21 



I love our neighbours all, 

But, Kitty, I better love thee ; 

And love them I ever shall 5 
But thou art all to me. 




22 POETICAL 



SONG. 

MEMORY, hither come 
And tune your merry notes : 
And while upon the wind 

Your music floats 
I'll pore upon the stream 
Where sighing lovers dream, 
And fish for fancies as they pass 
Within the watery glass. 

ril drink of the clear stream 

And hear the linnet's song, 
And there I'll lie and dream 

The day along : 
And, when night comes, I'll go 
To places fit for woe 
Walking along the darken' d valley 
With silent Melancholy.* 

* Can we trace in the opening lines of Tennyson's Sonnet, 
published in The Englishman's Magazine, in August, 1831, 
an unintentional echo of the melody of the last two lines, or 
is it merely one of those accidental coincidences not uncom- 
mon among great poets? Ed. 



SKETCHES. 23 



MAD SOXG. 



THE wild winds weep, 
And the night is a- cold ; 
Come hither, Sleep, 

And my griefs enfold : 
But lo ! the morning peeps 
Over the eastern steeps, 
And the rustling beds of dawn 
The earth do scorn. 

Lo ! to the vault 

Of paved heaven, 
With sorrow fraught 

My notes are driven : 
They strike the ear of night, 

Make weep the eyes of day ; 
They make mad the roaring winds, 

And with tempests play. 

Like a fiend in a cloud 

With howling woe, 
After night I do crowd 

And with night will go ; 



24 



POETICAL 



I turn my back to the east 

From whence comforts have increased ; 

For light doth seize my brain 

With frantic pain. 




SKETCHES. 25 



SONG. 

FRESH from the dewy hill, the merry year 
Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car ; 
Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade 
And rising glories beam around my head. 

My feet are wing'd while o'er the dewy lawn 

I meet my maiden risen like the morn. 

Oh bless those holy feet, like angels' feet ; 

Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light ! 

Like as an angel glittering in the sky 
In times of innocence and holy joy ; 
The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song 
To hear the music of an angel's tongue. 

So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear ; 
So when we walk, nothing impure comes near ; 
Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat ; 
Each village seems the haunt of holy feet. 

E 



26 POETICAL 

But that sweet village, where my black-eyed maid 
Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade, 
Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire 
Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire. 




SKETCHES. 27 



SONG. 



WHEX early morn walks forth in sober gray, 
Then to my black- eyed maid I haste away, 
When evening sits beneath her dusky bower 
And gently sighs away the silent hour, 
The village bell alarms, away I go, 
And the vale darkens at my pensive woe. 

To that sweet village, where my black-eyed maid 

Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade, 

I turn my eyes ; and pensive as I go 

Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe. 

Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees, 
Whispering faint murmurs to the scanty breeze, 
I walk the village round ; if at her side 
A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride, 
I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe, 
That made my love so high, and me so low. 

O should she e'er prove false, his limbs I'd tear, 
And throw all pity on the burning air ; 
I'd curse bright fortune for my mixed lot, 
And then I'd die in peace, and be forgot. 



28 POETICAL 



TO THE MUSES. 

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow 
Or in the chambers of the East, 
The chambers of the Sun, that now 
From ancient melody have ceased ; 

Whether in heaven ye wander fair 
Or the green corners of the earth, 

Or the blue regions of the air, 

Where the melodious winds have birth ; 

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, 
Beneath the bosom of the sea 

Wandering in many a coral grove, 
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry ; 

How have you left the ancient love 
That bards of old enjoy'd in you ! 

The languid strings do scarcely move, 
The sound is forced, the notes are few ! 



SKETCHES. 29 



GWIN, KING OF NORWAY. 

COME, Kings, and listen to my song : 
When Gwin, the son of Nore, 
Over the nations of the North 
His cruel sceptre bore ; 

The Nobles of the land did feed 

Upon the hungry poor ; 
They tear the poor man's lamb, and drive 

The needy from their door ! 

The land is desolate ; our wives 

And children cry for bread ; 
Arise, and pull the tyrant down, 

Let Gwin be humbled. 

Gordred the giant roused himself 

From sleeping in his cave ; 
He shook the hills, and in the clouds 

The troubled banners wave. 



30 POETICAL 

Beneath them roll'd, like tempests black, 
The numerous sons of blood ; 

Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad, 
Seeking their nightly food. 

Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush, 
Their cry ascends the clouds ; 

The trampling horse and clanging arms 
Like rushing mighty floods ! 

Their wives and children, weeping loud, 

Follow in wild array, 
Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves 

In the bleak wintry day. 

" Pull down the tyrant to the dust, 

" Let Gwin be humbled," 
They cry, " and let ten thousand lives 

" Pay for the tyrant's head." 

From tower to tower the watchmen cry, 
" O Gwin, the son of Xore, 

" Arouse thyself! the nations black 
" Like clouds, come rolling o'er ! " 



SKETCHES. 31 

Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes, 

His chiefs come rushing round ; 
Each, like an awful thunder -cloud 

With voice of solemn sound : 

Like reared stones around a grave 

They stand around the King ; 
Then suddenly each seized his spear, 

And clashing steel does ring. 

The husbandman does leave his plough 

To wade thro' fields of gore ; 
The merchant binds his brows in steel, 

And leaves the trading shore ; 

The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe, 

And sounds the trumpet shrill, 
The workman throws his hammer down 

To heave the bloody bill. 

Like the tall ghost of Barraton 

Who sports in stormy sky, 
Gwin leads his host as black as night, 

When pestilence does fly, 



32 POETICAL 

With horses and with chariots — 

And all his spearmen bold, 
March to the sound of mournful song, 

Like clouds around him roll'd. 

Gwin lifts his hand — the nations halt ; 

" Prepare for war," he cries — 
Gordred appears! — his frowning brow 

Troubles our northern skies. 

The armies stand, like balances 

Held in the Almighty's hand ; — 
" Gwin, thou hast fill'd thy measure up, 

" Thou'rt swept from out the land." 

And now the raging armies rush'd 

Like warring mighty seas ; 
The Heavens are shook with roaring war, 

The dust ascends the skies ! 

Earth smokes with blood, and groans, and shakes, 

To drink her children's gore, 
A sea of blood ; nor can the eye 

See to the trembling shore. 



SKETCHES. 33 

And on the verge of this wild sea 

Famine and death doth cry ; 
The cries of women and of babes 

Over the field doth fly. 

The king is seen raging afar, 

With all his men of might ; 
Like blazing comets scattering death 

Thro' the red feverous night. 

Beneath his arm like sheep they die, 

And groan upon the plain ; 
The battle faints, and bloody men 

Fight upon hills of slain. 

Now death is sick, and riven men 

Labour and toil for life ; 
Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield, 

Sunk in this sea of strife ! 

The god of war is drunk with blood, 

The earth doth faint and fail; 
The stench of blood makes sick the heavens, 

Ghosts glut the throat of hell ! 

F 



34 POETICAL 

what have Kings to answer for 

Before that awful throne ! 
When thousand deaths for vengeance cry 

And ghosts accusing groan ! 

Like blazing comets in the sky 
That shake the stars of light, 

Which drop like fruit unto the earth 
Thro' the fierce burning night ; 

Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet, 
And the first blow decides ; 

Down from the brow unto the breast 
Gordred his head divides ! 

Gwin fell : the Sons of Norway fled, 

All that remain'd alive ; 
The rest did fill the vale of death, 

For them the eagles strive. 

The river Dorman roll'd their blood 

Into the northern sea ; 
Who niourn'd his sons, and overwhelm'd 

The pleasant south country. 



SKETCHES. 35 



AN IMITATION OF SPENSER. 

GOLDEN Apollo, that thro' heaven wide 
Scatter' st the rays of light, and truth his beams, 
In lucent words my darkling verses dight 

And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams, 
That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams : 
All while the jocund hours in thy train 

Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet ; 
And when thou yield' st to night thy wide domain, 
Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain. 

For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay 

With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse, 

Sound without sense ; yet in his rude affray, 
(For Ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse, 
And love of Folly needs none other's curse ;) 

Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears, 
For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse 

To sit in council with his modern peers 

And judge of tinkling rhymes and elegances terse. 



36 POETICAL 

And thou, Mercurius, that with winged bow 
Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky, 

And thro' Heaven's halls thy airy flight dost throw, 
Entering with holy feet to where on high 
Jove weighs the counsel of futurity ; 

Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go 

Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky, 
And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly : 



If thou arrivest at the sandy shore 

Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell, 
Thy golden rod, thrown on the dusty floor, 

Can charm to harmony with potent spell ; 
Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel 
Envy and Hate, that thirst for human gore ; 

And cause in sweet society to dwell 

Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell, 



O Mercury, assist my labouring sense 

That round the circle of the world would fly, 

As the wing'd eagle scorns the towery fence 
Of Alpine hills round his high aery, 
And searches thro' the corners of the sky, 



SKETCHES. 37 

Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound 
And see the winged lightnings as they fly ; 

Then, bosom' d in an amber cloud, around 

Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high. 

And thou, warrior Maid invincible, 

Arm'd with the terrors of Almighty Jove, 

Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible, 

Lovest thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove, 
In solemn gloom of branches interwove ? 

Or bear'st thy iEgis o'er the burning field, 

Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move ? 

Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld 

The weary wanderer thro' the desert rove ? 

Or does th' afflicted man thy heavenly bosom move ? 




38 POETICAL 



BLIND-MAN'S BUFF. 

WHEN silver snow decks Susan's clothes, 
And jewel hangs at th' shepherd's nose, 
The blushing bank is all my care, 
With hearth so red, and walls so fair. 
" Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher, 
" The oaken log lay on the fire :" 
The well-wash'd stools, a circling row, 
With lad and lass, how fair the show ! 
The merry can of nut-brown ale, 
The laughing jest, the love-sick tale, 
Till, tired of chat, the game begins, 
The lasses prick the lads with pins ; 
Roger from Dolly twitch'd the stool, 
She falling, kiss'd the ground, poor fool ! 
She blush'd so red, with side-long glance 
At hobnail Dick, who grieved the chance. 
But now for Blind-man's Buff they call ; 
Of each incumbrance clear the hall — 
Jenny her silken kerchief folds, 
And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds, 
Now laughing, stops, with " Silence, hush ! " 



SKETCHES. 39 

And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push. — 

The Blind-man's arms, extended wide, 

Sam slips between : — ; ' woe betide 

Thee, clumsy Will ! " — but tittering Kate 

Is penn'd up in the corner strait ! 

And now Will's eyes beheld the play. 

He thought his face was t'other way. 

" Xow, Kitty, now ; what chance hast thou. - 

" Roger so near thee trips, I vow !" 

She catches him — then Roger ties 

His own head up — but not his eyes ; 

For thro' the slender cloth he sees, 

And runs at Sam, who slips with ease 

Hi^ clumsy hold : and, dodging round. 

Sukey is tumbled on the ground ! — 

" See what it is to play unfair ! 

•• Where cheating is, there's mischief there." 

But Roger still pursues the chace, — 

" He sees ! he sees ! " cries softly Grace ; 

" Roger, thou, unskili'd in art 

" Must, surer bound, go thro' thy part ! " 

Xow Kitty, pert, repeats the rhymes 

And Roger turns him round three times. 

Then pauses ere he starts ; but Dick 

Was mischief-bent upon a trick ; 

Down on his hands and knees he lav 



40 POETICAL SKETCHES. 

Directly in the Blind-man's way, 

Then cries out, " Hem !" Hodge heard, and ran 

With hood-wink'd chance — sure of his man ; 

But down he came. — Alas, how frail 

Our best of hopes, how soon they fail ! 

With crimson drops he stains the ground, 

Confusion startles all around ! 

Poor piteous Dick supports his head, 

And fain would cure the hurt he made ; 

But Kitty hasted with a key 

And down his back they straight convey 

The cold relief — the blood is stay'd 

And Hodge again holds up his head. 

Such are the fortunes of the game, 

And those who play should stop the same 

By wholesome laws, such as — all those 

Who on the blinded man impose, 

Stand in his stead; as long agone 

When men were first a nation grown, 

Lawless they lived, till wantonness 

And liberty began t' increase, 

And one man lay in another's way ; 

Then laws were made to keep fair play. 



fmw 



KING EDWARD THE THIRD. 



~*^3^ 



PERSONS. 

King Edward. 

The Black Prince. 

Queen Philippa. 

Duke of Clarence. 

Sir John Chandos. 

Sir Thomas Dagworth. 

Sir Walter Manny. 

Lord Audley. 

Lord Percy. 

Bishop. 

William, Dagworth! s man. 

Peter Blunt, a common soldier. 




KIXG EDWARD THE THIRD. 



SCENE. The Coast of France, King Edward and 
Nobles before it. The Army. 




King. 

THOU to whose fury the nations are 
But as dust ! maintain thy servant's right. 
Without thine aid, the twisted mail, and 
spear, 
And forged helm, and shield of seven times beaten 

brass, 
Are idle trophies of the vanquisher. 
When confusion rages, when the field is in a flame, 
When the cries of blood tear horror from heaven, 
And yelling death runs up and down the ranks, 
Let Liberty, the charter' d right of Englishmen, 



44 KING EDWARD 

Won by our fathers in many a glorious field, 
Enerve my soldiers ; let Liberty 
Blaze in each countenance, and fire the battle. 
The enemy fight in chains, invisible chains, but 

heavy ; 
Their minds are fetter'd ; then how can they be free, 
While, like the mounting flame, 
We spring to battle o'er the floods of death ? 
And these fair youths, the flower of England, 
Venturing their lives in my most righteous cause, 
O sheathe their hearts with triple steel, that they 
May emulate their fathers' virtues. 
And thou, my son, be strong : thou fightest for a 

crown 
That death can never ravish from thy brow, 
A crown of glory- — but from thy very dust 
Shall beam a radiance, to fire the breasts 
Of youth unborn ! Our names are written equal 
In fame's wide-trophied hall ; 'tis ours to gild 
The letters, and to make them shine with gold 
That never tarnishes : whether Third Edward, 
Or the Prince of Wales, or Montacute, or Mortimer, 
Or ev'n the least by birth, shall gain the brightest 

fame, 
Is in His hand to whom all men are equal. 
The world of men are like the numerous stars 



THE THIRD. 45 

That beam and twinkle in the depth of night, 
Each clad in glory according to his sphere : 
But we, that wander from our native seats 
And beam forth lustre on a darkling world, 
Grow large as we advance ! and some perhaps 
The most obscure at home, that scarce were seen 
To twinkle in their sphere, may so advance, 
That the astonish'd world, with npturn'd eyes. 
Regardless of the moon, and those that once were 

bright, 
Stand only for to gaze upon their splendour ! 

[He here knights the Prince and other 
young Xobles. 
Xow let us take a just revenge for those 
Brave Lords, who fell beneath the bloody axe 
At Paris. Thanks, noble Harconrt, for 'twas 
By your advice we landed here in Brittany. 
A country not yet sown with destruction, 
And where the fiery whirlwind oi swift war 
Has not yet swept its desolating wing. — 
Into three parties we divide by day 
And separate march, but join again at night : 
Each knows his rank, and Heaven marshal all. 

\ Exeunt. 



46 KING EDWARD 



SCENE. English Court; Lionel, Duke of Clarence, 
Queen Philippa, Lords, Bishop, Sfc. 

Clarence. 

MY Lords, I have by the advice of her 
Whom I am doubly bound to obey, my Parent 
And my Sovereign, called you together. 
My task is great, my burden heavier than 
My unfledged years ; 

Yet with your kind assistance, Lords, I hope 
England shall dwell in peace : that while my father 
Toils in his wars and turns his eyes on this 
His native shore, and sees commerce fly round 
With his white wings,* and sees his golden London 
And her silver Thames, throng' d with shining spires 
And corded ships, her merchants buzzing round 
Like summer bees, and all the golden cities 
In his land, overflowing with honey, 
G-lory may not be dimm'd with clouds of care. 
Say, Lords, should not our thoughts be first to com- 
merce ? 



Compare Tennyson : Exhibition Ode, 1862: 

" Let the fair white-wing'd peacemaker fly 
To happy havens under all the sky." 



THE THIRD. 47 

My Lord Bishop, you would recommend us agri- 
culture ? 

Bishop. 

Sweet Prince, the arts of peace are great, 

And no less glorious than those of war, 

Perhaps more glorious in the philosophic mind. 

When I sit at my home, a private man, 

My thoughts are on my gardens and my fields, 

How to employ the hand that lacketh bread. 

If Industry is in my diocese 

Religion will flourish ; each man's heart 

Is cultivated and will bring forth fruit : 

This is my private duty and my pleasure. 

But as I sit in council with my prince, 

My thoughts take in the general good of the whole, 

And England is the land favour* d by Commerce ; 

For Commerce, tho' the child of Agriculture, 

Fosters his parent, who else must sweat and toil 

And gain but scanty fare. Then, my dear Lord, 

Be England's trade our care ; and we, as tradesmen, 

Looking to the gain of this our native land. 

CXlABENCE. 

my good Lord, true wisdom drops like honey 
From your tongue, as from a worshipped oak ! 



48 KING EDWARD 

Forgive, my Lords, my talkative youth, that speaks 
Not merely what my narrow observation has 
Pick'd up, but what I have concluded from your 

lessons : 
Now, by the Queen's advice, I ask your leave 
To dine to-morrow with the Mayor of London : 
If I obtain your leave, I have another boon 
To ask, which is the favour of your company. 
I fear Lord Percy will not give me leave. 

Percy. 

Dear Sir, a prince should always keep his state, 

And grant his favours with a sparing hand, 

Or they are never rightly valued. 

These are my thoughts : yet it were best to go : 

But keep a proper dignity, for now 

You represent the sacred person of 

Your father ; 'tis with princes as 'tis with the sun : 

If not sometimes o'erclouded, we grow weary 

Of his officious glory. 

Clarence. 

Then you will give me leave to shine sometimes, 
My Lord ? 



THE THIRD. 49 

Lord. 

Thou hast a gallant spirit, which I fear 

Will be imposed on by the closer sort ! [Aside. 

Clarence. 

Well, I'll endeavour to take 

Lord Percy's advice ; I have been used so much 

To dignity, that I'm sick on't. 

Queen Phllippa. 

Fie, fie, Lord Clarence, you proceed not to business, 

But speak of your own pleasures. 

I hope their lordships will excuse your giddiness. 

Clarence. 

My Lords, the French have fitted out many 
Small ships of war that, like to ravening wolves, 
Infest our English seas, devouring all 
Our burden'd vessel?, spoiling our naval nocks. 
The merchants do complain, and beg our aid. 

Percy. 

The merchants are rich enough ; 
Can they not help themselves ? 



50 KING EDWABD 

Bishop. 

They can, and may ; but how to gain their will 
Requires our countenance and help. 

Percy. 

When that they find they must, my Lord, they will : 
Let them but suffer awhile, and you shall see 
They will bestir themselves. 

Bishop. 

Lord Percy cannot mean that we should suffer 
This disgrace : if so, we are not sovereigns 
Of the sea : our right, that Heaven gave 
To England, when at the birth of Nature 
She was seated in the deep, the Ocean ceased 
His mighty roar, and, fawning, play'd around 
Her snowy feet, and own'd his awful Queen. 
Lord Percy, if the heart is sick, the head 
Must be aggrieved ; if but one member suffer, 
The heart doth fail. You say, my Lord, the 

merchants 
Can, if they will, defend themselves against 
These rovers : this is a noble scheme, 
Worthy the brave Lord Percy, and as worthy 
His generous aid to put it into practice. 



THE THIRD. 51 



Percy. 



Lord Bishop, what was rash in me, is wise 

In you ; I dare not own the plan. 'Tis not 

Mine. Yet will I, if you please, 

Quickly to the Lord Mayor, and work him onward 

To this most glorious voyage ; on which cast 

I'll set my whole estate, 

But we will bring these Gallic rovers under. 

Qceex Phieippa. 

Thanks, brave Lord Percy ; you have the thanks 
Of England's Queen, and will, ere long, of England. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE. At Cressy. Sir Thomas Dagworth and 
Lord, Audley meeting. 

Audley. 

GOOD-MORROW, brave Sir Thomas ; the bright 
morn 
Smiles on our army, and the gallant sun 
Springs from the hills like a young hero 
Into the battle, shaking his golden locks 
Exultingly : this is a promising day. 



52 KING EDWARD 

Dag worth. 

Why, my Lord Audley, I don't know. 

Give me your hand, and now I '11 tell you what 

I think you do not know. Edward 's afraid of Philip. 

Audley. 

Ha ! Ha ! Sir Thomas ! you but joke ; 
Did you e'er see him fear ? At Blanchetaque, 
When almost singly he drove six thousand 
French from the ford, did he fear then ? 

.Dagworth. 

Yes, fear— that made him fight so. 

Audley. 

By the same reason I might say 'tis fear 
That makes you fight. 

Dagworth. 

Mayhap you may : look upon Edward's face, 

~No one can say he fears ; but when he turns 

His back, then I will say it to his face ; 

He is afraid : he makes us all afraid. 

I cannot bear the enemy at my back. 

Now here we are at Cressy ; where to-morrow, 



THE THIRD. 53 

To-morrow we shall know. I say, Lord Audley, 
That Edward runs away from Philip. 

Audley. 
Perhaps you think the Prince too is afraid ? 

Dagworth. 

No ; God forbid ! I 'm sure he is not. 

He is a young lion. O I have seen him fight 

And give command, and lightning has flash'd 

From his eyes across the field : I have seen him 

Shake hands with death, and strike a bargain for 

The enemy ; he has danced in the field 

Of battle, like the youth at morris-play. 

I 'm sure he 's not afraid, nor Warwick, nor none, 

None of us but me, and I am very much afraid. 

Audley. 

Are you afraid too, Sir Thomas ? 

I believe that as much as I believe 

The King 's afraid : but what are you afraid of? 

Dagworth. 

Of having my back laid open ; we turn 

Our backs to the fire, till we shall burn our skirts . 



54 KING EDWARD 

AlJDLEY. 

And this, Sir Thomas, you call fear ? Your fear 
Is of a different kind then from the King's ; 
He fears to turn his face, and you to turn your back. 
I do not think, Sir Thomas, you know what fear is. 

Enter Sir John Chandos. 

Chandos. 

Good-morrow, Generals ; I give you joy : 
Welcome to the fields of Cressy. Here we stop, 
And wait for Philip. 

Dagwoeth. 
I hope so. 

AlJDLEY. 

There, Sir Thomas ; do you call that fear ? 

Dagworth. 

I don't know ; perhaps he takes it by fits. 
Why, noble Chandos, look you here — 
One rotten sheep spoils the whole flock ; 
And if the bell-wether is tainted, I wish 
The Prince may not catch the distemper too. 



THE THIRD. 55 

Chasdos. 

Distemper, Sir Thomas ! what distemper ? 
I have not heard. 

Dagworth. 

Why, Chandos, you are a wise man, 

I know you understand me ; a distemper 

The King caught here in France of running away. 

AuDLEY. 

Sir Thomas, you say you have caught it too. 

Dagworth. 

And so will the whole army ; 'tis very catching, 
For when the coward runs, the brave man totters, 
Perhaps the air of the country is the cause. 
I feel it coming upon me, so I strive against it ; 
You yet are whole ; but after a few more 
Retreats, we all shall know how to retreat 
Better than fight. — To be plain, I think retreating 
Too often, takes away a soldier's courage. 

Chandos. 

Here comes the King himself: tell him your thoughts 
Plainly, Sir Thomas. 



KING EDWARD 



Dagworth. 



I 've told him before, but his disorder 
Makes him deaf. 

Enter King Edward and Black Prince. 

King. 

Good-morrow, Generals ; when English courage fails, 

Down goes our right to France. 

But we are conquerors everywhere ; nothing 

Can stand our soldiers ; each man is worthy 

Of a triumph. Such an army of heroes 

Ne'er shouted to the Heavens, nor shook the field. 

Edward, my son, thou art 

Most happy, having such command : the man 

Were base who were not fired to deeds 

Above heroic, having such examples. 

Prince. 

Sire, with respect and deference I look 
Upon such noble souls, and wish myself 
Worthy the high command that heaven and you 
Have given me. When I have seen the field glow, 
And in each countenance the soul of war 
Curb'd by the manliest reason, I have been wing'd 
With certain victory ; and 'tis my boast, 



THE THIRD. 57 

And shall be still my glory. I was inspired 
By these brave troops. 

Dag worth. 

Your Grace had better make them 
All Generals. 

King. 

Sir Thomas Dagworth, you must have your joke, 
And shall, while you can fight as you did at 
The Ford. 

Dagworth. 
I have a small petition to your Majesty. 

King. 

What can Sir Thomas Dagworth ask 
That Edward can refuse ? 

Dagworth. 

I hope your Majesty cannot refuse so great 
A trifle ; I 've gilt your cause with my best blood, 
And would again, were I not forbid 
By him whom I am bound to obey : my hands 
Are tied up, my courage shrunk and wither' d, 
i 



58 KING EDWARD 

My sinews slacken'd, and my voice scarce heard ; 
Therefore I beg I may return to England. 

King. 

I know not what you could have ask'd, Sir Thomas, 

That I would not have sooner parted with 

Than such a soldier as you have been, and such a 

friend : 
Nay, I will know the most remote particulars 
Of this your strange petition ; that, if I can, 
I still may keep you here. 

Dag worth. 

Here on the fields of Cressy we are settled 

Till Philip springs the timorous covey again. 

The wolf is hunted down by causeless fear ; 

The lion flees, and fear usurps his heart 

Startled, astonish'd at the clamorous cock ; 

The Eagle, that doth gaze upon the sun, 

Fears the small fire that plays about the fen ; 

If, at this moment of their idle fear, 

The dog doth seize the wolf, the forester the lion, 

The negro in the crevice of the rock 

Doth seize the soaring eagle ; undone by flight, 

They tame submit : such the effect flight has 

On noble souls. Now hear its opposite : 

The timorous staa: starts from the thicket wild, 



THE THIRD. 59 

The fearful crane springs from the splashy fen, 
The shining snake glides o'er the bending grass, 
The stag turns head, and bays the crying hounds ; 
The crane o'ertaken fighteth with the hawk ; 
The snake doth turn, and bite the padding foot. 
And if your Majesty 's afraid of Philip, 
You are more like a lion than a crane : 
Therefore I beg I may return to England. 

King. 

Sir Thomas, now I understand your mirth, 
Which often plays with wisdom for its pastime, 
And brings good counsel from the breast of laughter. 
I hope you '11 stay and see us fight this battle 
And reap rich harvest in the fields of Cressy ; 
Then go to England, tell them how we fight, 
And set all hearts on fire to be with us. 
Philip is plumed, and thinks we flee from him, 
Else he would never dare to attack us. Now, 
Xow the quarry's set! and Death doth sport 
In the bright sunshine of this fatal day. 

Dagworth. 

Now my heart dances and I am as light 

As the young bridegroom going to be married. 

Xow must I to my soldiers, get them ready, 



60 KING EDWARD 

Furbish our armours bright, new plume our helms ; 
And we will sing like the young housewives busied 
In the dairy ; my feet are wing'd, but not 
For flight, an please your grace. 

King. 

If all my soldiers are as pleased as you, 
'Twill be a gallant thing to fight or die ; 
Then I can never be afraid of Philip. 

Dagwoeth. 

A raw-boned fellow t' other day pass'd by me ; 

I told him to put off his hungry looks — 

He answer'd me, " I hunger for another battle." 

I saw a little Welshman with a fiery face ; 

I told him he look'd like a candle half 

Burn'd out ; he answer'd, he was " pig enough 

" To light another pattle" Last night, beneath 

The moon I walk'd abroad, when all had pitched 

Their tents, and all were still ; 

I heard a blooming youth singing a song 

He had composed, and at each pause he wiped 

His dropping eyes. The ditty was, " if he 

" Return'd victorious, he should wed a maiden 

4 ' Fairer than snow, and rich as midsummer." 

Another wept, and wish'd health to his father* 



THE THIRD. 61 

I chid them both, but gave them noble hopes. 
These are the minds that glory in the battle, 
And leap and dance to hear the trumpet sound. 

King. 

Sir Thomas Dagworth, be thou near our person ; 
Thy heart is richer than the vales of France : 
I will not part with such a man as thee. 
If Philip came arm'd in the ribs of death. 
And shook his mortal dart against my head. 
Thou'dst laugh his fury into nerveless shame ! 
Go now, for thou art suited to the work, 
Throughout the camp ; inflame the timorous, 
Blow up the sluggish into ardour, and 
Confirm the strong with strength, the weak inspire, 
And wing their brows with hope and expectation : 
Then to our tent return, and meet to council. 

\~Exit Dogicorth. 

Chasdos. 

That man 's a hero in his closet, and more 

A hero to the servants of his house 

Than to the gaping world ; he carries windows 

In that enlarged breast of his, that all 

May see what's done within. 



62 KING EDWARD 

Prince. 

He is a genuine Englishman, my Chandos, 
And hath the spirit of Liberty within him. 
Forgive my prejudice, Sir John ; I think 
My Englishmen the bravest people on 
The face of the earth. 

Chandos. 

Courage, my Lord, proceeds from self-dependence ; 

Teach man to think he 's a free agent, 

Give but a slave his liberty, he'll shake 

Off sloth, and build himself a hut, and hedge 

A spot of ground; this he'll defend; 'tis his 

By right of nature : thus set in action, 

He will still move onward to plan conveniences, 

Till glory fires his breast to enlarge his castle, 

While the poor slave drudges all day, in hope 

To rest at night. 

King. 

Liberty, how glorious art thou ! 

1 see thee hovering o'er my army, with 
Thy wide-stretch' d plumes ; I see thee 
Lead them on to battle ; 

I see thee blow thy golden trumpet while 



THE THIRD. 63 

Thy sons shout the strong shout of victory ! 

noble Chandos, think thyself a gardener, 

My son a vine, which I commit unto 

Thy care ; prune all extravagant shoots, and guide 

The ambitious tendrils in the path of wisdom ; 

Water him with thy advice, and Heaven 

Rain freshening dew upon his branches. And, 

O Edward, my dear son ! learn to think lowly of 

Thyself, as we may all each prefer other — 

'Tis the best policy, and 'tis our duty. 

[Exit King Edward. 

Prince. 

And may our duty, Chandos, be our pleasure. — 
Xow we are alone, Sir John, I will unburden 
And breathe my hopes into the burning air, 
Where thousand deaths are posting up and down, 
Commission'd to this fatal field of Cressv. 
Methinks I see them arm my gallant soldiers, 
And gird the sword upon each thigh, and fit 
Each shining helm, and string each stubborn bow, 
And dance to the neighing of our steeds. 
Methinks the shout begins, the battle burns ; 
Methinks I see them perch on English crests, 
And roar the wild flame of fierce war upon 
The thronged enemy ! In truth, I am too full ; 



64 KING EDWARD 

It is my sin to love the noise of war. 

Chanclos, thou seest my weakness ; strong nature 

Will bend or break us : my blood, like a springtide, 

Does rise so high to overflow all bounds 

Of moderation ; while Reason, in her frail bark, 

Can see no shore or bound for vast ambition. 

Come, take the helm, my Chandos, 

That my full-blown sails overset me not 

In the wild tempest. Condemn my venturous youth 

That plays with danger, as the innocent child, 

Unthinking, plays upon the viper's den : 

I am a coward in my reason, Chandos. 

Chandos. 
You are a man, my prince, and a brave man, 
If I can judge of actions ; but your heat 
Is the effect of youth, and want of use : 
Use makes the armed field and noisy war 
Pass over as a summer cloud, unregarded, 
Or but expected as a thing of course. 
Age is contemplative ; each rolling year 
Brings forth fruit to the mind's treasure-house ; 
While vacant youth doth crave and seek about 
Within itself, and findeth discontent, 
Then, tired of thought, impatient takes the wing, 
Seizes the fruits of time, attacks experience, 



THE THIRD. 65 

Roams round vast Nature's forest, where no bounds 
Are set, the swiftest may have room, the strongest 
Find prey ; till tired at length, sated and tired 
With the changing sameness, old variety, 
We sit us down, and view our former joys 
With distaste and dislike. 

Prince. 

Then if we must tug for experience 

Let us not fear to beat round Nature's wilds 

And rouse the strongest prey : then if we fall, 

We fall with glory. I know the wolf 

Is dangerous to fight, not good for food, 

Nor is the hide a comely vestment ; so 

We have our battle for our pains. I know 

That youth has need of age to point fit prey, 

And oft the stander-by shall steal the fruit 

Of the other's labour. This is philosophy ; 

These are the tricks of the world ; but the pure soul 

Shall mount on native wings, disdaining little sport, 

And cut a path into the heaven of glory, 

Leaving a track of light for men to wonder at. 

I'm glad my father does not hear me talk ; 

You can find friendly excuses for me, Chandos ; 

But do you not think, Sir John, that if it please 

The Almighty to stretch out my span of life, 

K 



66 KING EDWARD 

I shall with pleasure view a glorious action, 
Which my youth mastered ? 

Chandos. 

Considerate age, my Lord, views motives, 

And not acts ; when neither warbling voice 

Nor trilling pipe is heard, nor pleasure sits 

With trembling age, the voice of Conscience then, 

Sweeter than music in a summer's eve, 

Shall warble round the snowy head, and keep 

Sweet symphony to feather'd angels, sitting 

As guardians round your chair ; then shall the pulse 

Beat slow, and taste, and touch, and sight, and sound, 

and smell, 
That sing and dance round Reason's fine-wrought 

throne, 
Shall flee away, and leave him all forlorn ; 
Yet not forlorn if Conscience is his friend. 

[Exeunt 



THE THIRD. 67 



SCENE. In Sir Thomas DagwortJCs Tent. Dagwortk 
and William his man. 



B 



Dagworth. 

RING hither my armour, William ; 
Ambition is the growth of every clime. 



William. 

Does it grow in England, sir ? 

Dagworth. 

Ay, it grows most in lands most cultivated. 

William. 

Then it grows most in France ; the vines here 
Are finer than any we have in England. 

Dagworth. 
Ay, but the oaks are not. 

William. 

What is the tree you mentioned? I don't think 
I ever saw it. 

Dagworth. 

Ambition. 



68 KING EDWARD 

William. 

Is it a little creeping root that grows in ditches ? 

Dagworth. 

Thou dost not understand me, William. 

It is a root that grows in every breast ; 

Ambition is the desire or passion that one man 

Has to get before another, in an;y pursuit after glory ; 

But I don 't think you have any of it. 

William. 

Yes, I have; I have a great ambition to know 
everything, sir. 

Dagworth. 

But when our first ideas are wrong, what follows 
must all be wrong, of course ; 'tis best to know a little, 
and to know that little aright. 

William. 

Then, sir, I should be glad to know if it was not 
ambition that brought over our king to France to 
fight for his right ? 

Dagworth. 

Though the knowledge of that will not profit thee 
much, yet I will tell you that it was ambition. 



THE THIRD. 69 

William. 

Then if ambition is a sin, we are all guilty in 
coming with him, and in fighting for him. 

Dagwoeth. 

Now, William, thou dost thrust the question 
home ; but I must tell you that guilt being an act of 
the mind, none are guilty but those whose minds are 
prompted by that same ambition. 

William. 

Now, I always thought that a man might be guilty 
of doing wrong without knowing it was wrong. 

Dagworth. 

Thou art a natural philosopher, and knowest truth 
by instinct ; while reason runs aground, as we have 
run our argument. Only remember, William, all 
have it in their power to know the motives of their 
own actions, and 'tis a sin to act without some reason. 

William. 

And whoever acts without reason may do a great 
deal of harm without knowing it. 

Dagworth. 

Thou art an endless moralist, 



70 KING EDWARD 

William. 

Now there's a story come into my head, that I will 
tell your honour, if you'll give me leave. 

Dagworth. 

No, William, save it till another time ; this is no 
time for story-telling ; but here comes one who is as 
entertaining as a good story. 

Enter Peter Blunt 

Peter. 

Yonder 's a musician going to play before the King ; 
it's a new song about the French and English, and the 
Prince has made the minstrel a squire, and given 
him I don't know what, and I can't tell whether he 
don 't mention us all one by one ; and he is to write 
another about all us that are to die, that we may be 
remembered in Old England, for all our blood and 
bones are in France ; and a great deal more that we 
shall all hear by and by; and I came to tell your 
honour, because you love to hear war-songs. 

Dagworth. 

And who is this minstrel, Peter, dost know ? 

Peter. 
O ay, I forgot to tell that ; he has got the same 



THE THIRD. 71 

name as Sir John Chandos that the prince is always 
with — the wise man that knows us all as well as your 
honour, only ain't so good-natured. 

Dagwoeth. 

I thank you, Peter, for your imformation, but not 
for your compliment, which is not true: there's as 
much difference between him and me as between glit- 
tering sand and fruitful mould : or shining glass and a 
wrought diamond, set in rich gold, and fitted to the 
finger of an Emperor ; such is that worthy Chandos. 

Peter. 

I know your honour does not think anything of 
yourself, but everybody else does. 

Dagworth. 

Go, Peter, get you gone ; flattery is delicious, even 
from the lips of a babbler. 

[Exit Peter. 

"Wllliam, 
I never flatter your honour, 

Dagworth. 
I don't know that. 



72 KING EDWARD 



William. 



Why you know, sir, when we were in England, at 
the tournament at Windsor, and the Earl of Warwick 
was tumbled over, you asked me if he did not look 
well when he fell ? and I said no, he looked very 
foolish ; and you were very angry with me for not 
flattering you. 

Dagworth. 

You mean that I was angry with you for not flat- 
tering the Earl of Warwick. [Exeunt. 



SCENE. Sir Thomas Dagworth's Tent; Sir Thomas 
Dagworth. To him enters Sir Walter Manny. 

Sir Walter. 

SIR THOMAS DAGWOKTH, I have been 
weeping 
Over the men that are to die to-day. 

Dagworth. 
Why, brave Sir Walter, you or I may fall. 

Sir Walter. 

I know this breathing flesh must lie and rot, 



THE THIRD. 73 

Cover'd with silence and forgetfulness ; 

Death roams in cities' smoke, and in still night, 

When men sleep in their beds, walketh about ! 

How many in walled cities lie and groan, 

Turning themselves upon their beds, 

Talking with death, answering his hard demands ! 

How many walk in darkness, terrors are round 

The curtains of their beds, destruction is 

Ready at the door ! How many sleep 

In earth, cover'd with stones and deathy dust, 

Resting in quietness, whose spirits walk 

Upon the clouds of heaven, to die no more. 

Yet death is terrible, tho' borne on angels 1 wings. 

How terrible then is the field of death, 

Where he doth rend the vault of heaven, 

And shake the gates of hell ! 

Dagworth, France is sick ; the very sky, 

Tho' sunshine light it, seems to me as pale 

As the pale fainting man on his death-bed, 

Whose face is shewn by light of sickly taper. 

It makes me sad and sick at very heart ; 

Thousands must fall to-day. 

Dagworth. 

Thousands of souls must leave this prison-house, 
To be exalted to those heavenly fields, 



74 KING EDWARD 

Where songs of triumph, palms of victory, 

Where peace, and joy, and love, and calm content, 

Sit singing in the azure clouds, and strew 

Flowers of heaven's growth over the banquet- table. 

Bind ardent hope upon your feet like shoes, 

Put on the robe of preparation, 

The table is prepared in shining heaven, 

The flowers of immortality are blown ; 

Let those that fight fight in good stedfastness, 

And those that fall shall rise in victory. 

Sir Walter. 

I've often seen the burning field of war, 

And often heard the dismal clang of arms ; 

But never, till this fatal day of Cressy, 

Has my soul fainted with these views of death, 

I seem to be in one great charnel-house, 

And seem to scent the rotten carcases ; 

I seem to hear the dismal yells of death, 

While the black gore drops from his horrid jaws : 

Yet I not fear the monster in his pride — 

But oh ! the souls that are to die to-day ! 

Dagworth. 

Stop, brave Sir Walter ; let me drop a tear. 
Then let the clarion of war begin ; 



THE THIRD. 75 

I'll fight and weep, 'tis in my country's cause ; 
I'll weep and shout for glorious liberty. 
Grim war shall laugh and shout, decked in tears, 
And blood shall flow like streams across the meadows, 
That murmur down their pebbly channels, and 
Spend their sweet lives to do their country service : 
Then shall England's verdure shoot, her fields shall 

smile, 
Her ships shall sing across the foaming sea, 
Her mariners shall use the flute and viol, 
And rattling guns, and black and dreary war, 
Shall be no more. 

Sir Walter. 

Well, let the trumpet sound, and the drum beat ; 

Let war stain the blue heavens with bloody banners ; 

I'll draw my sword, nor ever sheathe it up 

Till England blow the trump of victory, 

Or I lie stretch'd upon the field of death, [Exeunt* 



76 KING EDWARD 



SCENE. In the Camp. Several of the Warriors met 
at the King's Tent with a Minstrel, who sings the 
following Song : 

OSONS of Trojan Brutus, clothed in war, 
Whose voices are the thunder of the field, 
Eolling dark clouds o'er France, muffling the sun 
In sickly darkness like a dim eclipse, 
Threatening as the red brow of storms, as fire 
Burning up nations in your wrath and fury : 

Your ancestors came from the fires of Troy 
(Like lions roused by lightning from their dens, 
Whose eyes do glare against the stormy fires), 
Heated with war, fill'd with the blood of Greeks, 
With helmets hewn, and shields covered with gore, 
In navies black, broken with wind and tide ; 

They landed in firm array upon the rocks 
Of Albion ; they kiss'd the rocky shore ; 
" Be thou our mother and our nurse," they said ; 
" Our children's mother, and thou shalt be our grave, 
44 The sepulchre of ancient Troy, from whence 
" Shall rise cities, and thrones, and arms, and awful 
powers." 



THE THIRD. 77 

Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices 
Are heard from the hills, the enormous sons 
Of Ocean run from rocks and caves ; wild men, 
]N"aked and roaring like lions, hurling rocks, 
And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled 
Thick as a forest, ready for the axe. 

Our fathers move in firm array to battle, 
The savage monsters rush like roaring fire ; 
Like as a forest roars with crackling flames 
When the red lightning, borne by furious storms, 
Lights on some woody shore ; the parched heavens 
Rain fire into the molten raging sea : 

The smoking trees are strewn upon the shore, 
Spoil'd of their verdure ! O how oft have they 
Defied the storm that howled o'er their heads. 
Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears, and view 
The mighty dead : giant bodies, streaming blood, 
Dread visages, frowning in silent death. 

Then Brutus spoke, inspired ; our fathers sit 

Attentive on the melancholy shore : 

Hear ye the voice of Brutus — " The flowing waves 

" Of time come rolling o'er my breast," he said ; 

" And my heart labours with futurity : 

" Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea. 



78 KING EDWARD 

" Their mighty wings shall stretch from east to west, 
" Their nest is in the sea ; but they shall roam 
" Like eagles for the prey ; nor shall the young 
" Crave or be heard ; for plenty shall bring forth, 
" Cities shall sing, and vales in rich array 
" Shall laugh, whose fruitful laps bend down with 
fulness. 

" Our sons shall rise from thrones in joy, 
" Each one buckling on his armour ; Morning 
" Shall be prevented by their swords gleaming, 
" And Evening hear their song of victory : 
" Their towers shall be built upon the rocks, 
" Their daughters shall sing, surrounded with shining 
spears. 

" Liberty shall stand upon the cliffs of Albion, 
" Casting her blue eyes over the green ocean ; 
" Or, towering, stand upon the roaring waves, 
" Stretching her mighty spear o'er distant lands ; 
" While, with her eagle wings, she covereth 
" Fair Albion's shore, and all her families." 



THE FO URTH. 79 



PROLOGUE 

INTENDED FOE A DRAMATIC PIECE OF KING EDWARD 
THE FOURTH. 

* dT\ FOR a voice like thunder, and a tongue 
^-' To drown the throat of war ! When the senses 
Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness, 
Who can stand ? When the souls of the oppressed 
Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand ? 
When the whirlwind of fury conies from the 
Throne of God, when the frowns of His countenance 
Drive the nations together, who can stand ? 
When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle, 
And sails rejoicing in the flood of death ; 
When souls are torn to everlasting fire, 
And fiends of hell rejoice upon the slain, 
O who can stand ? O who hath caused this ? 
O who can answer at the throne of God ? 
The Kings and Xobles of the land have done it ! 
Hear it not, Heaven, thy ministers have done it ! 



80 PROLOGUE TO 



PROLOGUE TO KING JOHN. 

JUSTICE hath heaved a sword to plunge in Albion's 
breast ; for Albion's sins are crimson -dyed, and 
the red scourge follows her desolate sons. Then 
Patriot rose ; full oft did Patriot rise, when Tyranny 
hath stained fair Albion's breast with her own chil- 
dren's gore. Round his majestic feet deep thunders 
roll : each heart does tremble, and each knee grows 
slack. The stars of heaven tremble; the roaring 
voice of war, the trumpet, calls to battle. Brother 
in brother's blood must bathe, rivers of death. O 
land most hapless ! O beauteous island, how for- 
saken ! Weep from thy silver fountains, weep from 
thy gentle rivers ! The angel of the island weeps ! 
Thy widowed virgins weep beneath thy shades ! Thy 
aged fathers gird themselves for war ! The sucking 
infant lives to die in battle; the weeping mother 
feeds him for the slaughter ! The husbandman doth 
leave his bending harvest ! Blood cries afar ! The 
land doth sow itself! The glittering youth of courts 
must glearn in arms ! The aged senators their ancient 



KING JOHN. 31 

swords assume ! The trembling sinews of old age 
must work the work of death against their progeny ; 
for Tyranny hath stretched his purple arm, and 
" Blood," he cries : " The chariots and the horses, 
" the noise of shout, and dreadful thunder of the 
" battle heard afar !" Beware, O proud ! thou shalt 
be humbled ; thy cruel brow, thine iron heart is 
smitten, though lingering Fate is. slow. yet may 
Albion smile again, and stretch her peaceful arms, 
and raise her golden head, exultingly ! Her citizens 
shall throng about her gates, her mariners shall sing 
upon the sea, and myriads shall to her temples crowd ! 
Her sons shall joy as in the morning ! Her daughters 
sing as to the rising year ! 




82 POETICAL 



A WAR SONG 



TO ENGLISHMEN. 



PREPARE, prepare the iron helm of war, 
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb ; 
The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands, 
And casts them out upon the darkened earth ! 
Prepare, prepare. 

Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand ! prepare 
Your souls for night, your bodies for the earth ! 
Prepare your arms for glorious victory ! 
Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God ! 
Prepare, prepare. 

Whose fatal scroll is that ? Methinks 'tis mine ! 
Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue ? 
Had I three lives, I 'd die in such a cause, 
And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field. 
Prepare, prepare. 

The arrows of Almighty God are drawn ! 
Angels of Death stand in the lowering heavens ! 



SKETCHES, 83 

Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light, 
And walk together on the clouds of heaven ! 
Prepare, prepare. 

Soldiers, prepare ! Our cause is Heaven's cause; 
Soldiers, prepare ! Be worthy of our cause : 
Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky : 
Prepare, troops that are to fall to-day ! 
Prepare, prepare. 

Alfred shall smile, and make his harp rejoice ; 
The Xorman William and the learned Clerk, 
And Lion-Heart, and black-brow'd Edward with 
His loyal queen shall rise, and welcome us ! 
Prepare, prepare. 




84 POETICAL 



THE COUCH OF DEATH. 

r | "HE veiled Evening walked solitary down the. 
-*■ western hills, and Silence reposed in the valley ; 
the birds of day were heard in their nests, rustling in 
brakes and thickets ; and the owl and bat flew round 
the darkening trees : all is silent when Nature takes 
her repose. — In former times, on such an evening, 
when the cold clay breathed with life, and our ances- 
tors, who now sleep in their graves, walked on the 
steadfast globe, the remains of a family of the tribes 
of Earth, a mother and a sister were gathered to the 
sick bed of a youth. Sorrow linked them together ; 
leaning on one another's necks alternately — like lilies, 
dropping tears in each other's bosom, they stood by 
the bed like reeds bending over a lake, when the 
evening drops trickle down. His voice was low as 
the whisperings of the woods when the wind is asleep, 
and the visions of Heaven unfold their visitation. 
" Parting is hard, and death is terrible ; I seem to 
" walk through a deep valley, far from the light of 
" day, alone and comfortless ! The damps of death 



SKETCHES. 85 

" fall thick upon me ! Horrors stare me in the face ! 
" I look behind, there is no returning ; Death follows 
" after me ; I walk in regions of Death, where no tree 
' ; is ; without a lantern to direct my steps, without a 
" staff to support me." — Thus he laments through the 
still evening, till the curtains of darkness were drawn ! 
Like the sound of a broken pipe, the aged woman 
raised her voice. " my son, my son, I know but 
" little of the path thou goest ! But lo, there is a God, 
" who made the world ; stretch out thy hand to Him." 
The youth replied, like a voice heard from a sepul- 
chre, " My hand is feeble, how should I stretch it 
" out ? My ways are sinful, how should I raise mine 
" eyes ? My voice hath used deceit, how should I 
" call on Him who is Truth ? My breath is loathsome, 
" how should He not be offended ? If I lay my face 
" in the dust, the grave opens its mouth for me ; if I 
" lift up my head, sin covers me as a cloak ! O my 
" dear friends, pray ye for me ! stretch forth your 
" hands, that my Helper may come ! Through the 
" void space I walk between the sinful world and 
" eternity ! Beneath me burns eternal fire ! O for 
" a hand to pluck me forth ! " As the voice of an 
omen heard in the silent valley, when the few in- 
habitants cling trembling together ; as the voice 
of the Angel of Death, when the thin beams of 



86 POETICAL 

the moon give a faint light, such was this young 
man's voice to his friends. Like the bubbling waters 
of the brook in the dead of night, the aged woman 
raised her cry, and said, " O voice, that dwellest in 
" my breast, can I not cry, and lift my eyes to 
" heaven ? Thinking of this, my spirit is turned 
" within me into confusion. O my child, my child ! 
" is thy breath infected ? so is mine. As the deer 
" wounded, by the brooks of water, so the arrows of 
" sin stick in my flesh ; the poison hath entered into 
" my marrow/' — Like rolling waves upon a desert 
shore, sighs succeeded sighs ; they covered their faces, 
and wept. The youth lay silent — his mother's arm 
was under his head ; he was like a cloud tossed by 
the winds, till the sun shine, and the drops of rain 
glisten, the yellow harvest breathes, and the thankful 
eyes of the villagers are turned up in smiles— the 
traveller that hath taken shelter under an oak, eyes 
the distant country with joy. Such smiles were 
seen upon the face of the youth ! a visionary hand 
wiped away his tears, and a ray of light beamed 
around his head ! All was still. The moon hung 
not out her lamp, and the stars faintly glimmered in 
the summer sky ; the breath of night slept among the 
leaves of the forest ; the bosom of the lofty hill drank 
in the silent dew, while on his majestic brow the voice 



SKETCHES. 



87 



of angels is heard, and stringed sounds ride upon the 
wings of night. The sorrowful pair lift up their 
heads, hovering angels are around them, voices of 
comfort are heard over the Couch of Death, and the 
youth breathes out his soul with joy into eternity. 




88 POETICAL 



CONTEMPLATION. 

"¥TTHO is this, that with unerring step dares 

* ▼ tempt the wilds, where only Nature's foot 

hath trod ? 'Tis Contemplation, daughter of the 

grey Morning ! Majestical she steppeth, and with 

her pure quill on every flower writeth Wisdom's 

name, now lowly bending, whispers in mine ear, " O 

' man, how great, how little thou ! O man, slave of 

c each moment, lord of eternity ! seest thou where 

1 Mirth sits on the painted cheek ? doth it not seem 

; ashamed of such a place, and grow immoderate to 

; brave it out ? O what an humble garb true Joy 

4 puts on ! Those who want Happiness must stoop 

4 to find it; it is a flower that grows in every vale. 

' Vain foolish man, that roams on lofty rocks, where, 

' 'cause his garments are swoln with wind, he fancies 

' he is grown into a giant ! Lo, then, Humility, take 

' it, and wear it in thine heart ; lord of thyself, thou 

1 then art lord of all. Clamour brawls along the 

' streets, and destruction hovers in the city's smoke ; 

' but on these plains, and in these silent woods, true 

4 j oys descend : here build thy nest ; here fix thy 



SKETCHES. 89 

"staff; delights blossom around; numberless beau- 
" ties blow; the green grass springs in joy, and the 
" nimble air kisses the leaves ; the brook stretches its 
" arms along the velvet meadow, its silver inhabitants 
" sport and play. The youthful sun joys like a 
" hunter roused to the chase : he rushes up the sky, 
" and lays hold on the immortal coursers of day ; 
" the sky glitters with the jingling trappings ! Like 
" a triumph, season follows season, while the airy 
" music fills the world with joyful sounds." I an- 
" swered, " Heavenly goddess ! I am wrapped in 
" mortality, my flesh is a prison, my bones the bars of 
" death, Misery builds over our cottage roofs, and 
" Discontent runs like a brook. Even in childhood, 
" sorrow slept with me in my cradle ; he followed 
" me up and down in the house when I grew up ; he 
" was my school-fellow : thus he was in my steps and 
" in my play, till he became to me as my brother. 
" I walked through dreary places with him, and in 
" church-yards ; and oft I found myself sitting by 
" Sorrow on a tomb-stone." 



90 POETICAL 



SAMSON. 



SAMSON, the strongest of the children of men, I 
sing ; how he was foiled by woman's arts, by a 
false wife brought to the gates of death ! O Truth, 
that shinest with propitious beams, turning our 
earthly night to heavenly day, from presence of the 
Almighty Father ! thou visitest our darkling world 
with blessed feet, bringing good news of Sin and 
Death destroyed ! O white-robed Angel, guide my 
timorous hand to write as on a lofty rock with iron 
pen the words of truth, that all who pass may read. 
Now Night, noon-tide of damned spirits, over the 
silent earth spreads her pavilion, while in dark council 
sat Philistia's lords ; and where strength failed, black 
thoughts in ambush lay. There helmed youth and 
aged warriors in dust together lie, and Desolation 
spreads his wings over the land of Palestine : from 
side to side the land groans, her prowess lost, and 
seeks to hide her bruised head under the mists of 
night, breeding dark plots. For Dalila's fair arts 
have long been tried in vain ; in vain she wept in 
many a treacherous tear. " Go on, fair traitress ; do 
" thy guileful work ; ere once again the changing 



SKETCHES. 91 

" moon her circuit hath performed, thou shalt over- 
" come, and conquer him by force unconquerable. 
" and wrest his secret from him. Call thine alluring 
" arts and honest-seeming brow, the holy kiss of love 
" and the transparent tear ; put on fair linen, that 
" with the lily vies, purple and silver ; neglect thy 
" hair, to seem more lovely in thy loose attire ; put 
" on thy country's pride, deceit ; and eyes of love 
" decked in mild sorrow, and sell thy lord for gold." 
For now, upon her sumptuous couch reclined, in 
gorgeous pride, she still entreats, and still she grasps 
his vigorous knees with her fair arms. " Thoulovest 
" me not ! thou'rt war, thou art not love ! O foolish 
" Dalila ! weak woman ! it is death clothed in 
" flesh thou lovest, and thou hast been encircled in 
" his arms ! Alas, my lord, what am I calling thee ? 
" Thou art my God ! * To thee I pour my tears for 
" sacrifice morning and evening : my days are co- 
" vered with sorrow ! shut up, darkened : by night 
" I am deceived ! Who says that thou wast born of 
" mortal kind? Destruction was thy father, a lioness 

* Compare Tennyson's treatment of a similar subject in 
the Idyll of Vivien^ where, after demanding of Merlin his 
secret, in order to undo him with it, she calls his love in 
question on his refusal, and then, changing her tactics : 
" Call'd him her lord, her silver star of eve, 
Her god, her Merlin," 



92 POETICAL 

" suckled thee, thy young hands tore human limbs, 
" and gorged human flesh ! Come hither, Death ; 
" art thou not Samson's servant ? 'Tis Dalila that 
" calls ; thy master's wife ; no, stay, and let thy 
" master do the deed : one blow of that strong arm 
" would ease my pain ; then I should lie at quiet 
" and have rest. Pity forsook thee at thy birth ! O 
" Dagon furious, and all ye gods of Palestine, with- 
" draw your hand ! I am but a weak woman. Alas, 
" I am wedded to your enemy ! I will go mad, and 
" tear my crisped hair ; I '11 run about, and pierce the 
" ears o' th ? gods ! O Samson, hold me not ; thou 
" lovest me not ! Look not upon me with those 
" deathful eyes ! Thou wouldst my death, and death 
" approaches fast." Thus, in false tears, she bathed 
his feet, and thus she day by day oppressed his soul : 
he seemed a mountain, his brow among the clouds ; 
she seemed a silver stream, his feet embracing. Dark 
thoughts rolled to and fro in his mind, like thunder 
clouds troubling the sky ; his visage was troubled ; 
his soul was distressed. " Though I should tell her 
" all my heart, what can I fear ? Though I should 
" tell this secret of my birth, the utmost may be 
" warded off as well when told as now." She saw 
him moved, and thus resumes her wiles : " Samson, 
" I'm thine ; do with me what thou wilt ; my friends 



SKETCHES. 93 

" are enemies ; my life is death ; I am a traitor to 
" my nation, and despised; my joy is given into the 
" hands of him who hates me, using deceit to the 
" wife of his bosom. Thrice hast thou mocked me 
" and grieved my soul. Didst thou not tell me with 
" green withes to bind thy nervous arms, and after 
;t that, when I had found thy falsehood, with new 
;i ropes to bind thee fast ? I knew thou didst but 
iC mock me. Alas, when in thy sleep I bound thee 
" with them to try thy truth, I cried, The Philistines 
" be upon thee, Samson ! then did suspicion wake 
" thee ; how didst thou rend the feeble ties ! Thou 
" fearest nought, what shouldst thou fear ? Thy 
" power is more than mortal, none can hurt thee ; 
" thy bones are brass, thy sinews are iron ! Ten 
" thousand spears are like the summer grass ; an 
li army of mighty men are as flocks in the valleys : 
" what canst thou fear ? I drink my tears like water ; 
" I live upon sorrow ! worse than wolves and 
" tigers, what canst thou give when such a trifle is 
" denied me ? But, oh ! at last thou mockest me, to 
" shame my over-fond inquiry ! Thou toldest me to 
" weave thee to the beam by thy strong hair ; I did 
" even that to try thy truth : but when I cried, The 
" Philistines be upon thee ! then didst thou leave me 
" to bewail that Samson loved me not." He sat, and 



94 POETICAL 

inward grieved, he saw and loved the beauteous sup- 
pliant, nor could conceal aught that might appease 
her ; then, leaning on her bosom, thus he spoke : 
" Hear, O Dalila ! doubt no more of Samson's love ; 
" for that fair breast was made the ivory palace of 
" my inmost heart, where it shall lie at rest ; for 
" sorrow is the lot of all of woman born : for care 
" was I brought forth, and labour is my lot : nor 
" matchless might, nor wisdom, nor every gift enjoyed, 
" can from the heart of man hide sorrow. Twice 
" was my birth foretold from heaven, and twice a 
" sacred vow enjoined me that I should drink no 
" wine, nor eat of any unclean thing, for holy unto 
" Israel's God I am, a Nazarite even from my mother's 
" womb. Twice was it told that it might not be 
" broken : Grant me a son, kind Heaven, Manoa 
" cried ; but Heaven refused ! Childless he mourned, 
" but thought his God knew best. In solitude, 
" though not obscure, in Israel he lived, till vener- 
'• able age came on: his flocks increased, and plenty 
" crowned his board : beloved, revered of man ! But 
a God hath other joys in store. Is burdened Israel 
" his grief ? The son of his old age shall set it free ! 
" The venerable sweetener of his life receives the 
" promise first from Heaven. She saw the maidens 
4 ' play, and blessed their innocent mirth ; she blessed 



SKETCHES. 95 

" each new -joined pair ; but from her the long-wished 
" deliverer shall spring. Pensive, alone she sat 
" within the house, when busy day was fading, and 
" calm evening, time for contemplation, rose from the 
" forsaken east, and drew the curtains of heaven i 
" pensive she sat, and thought on Israel's grief, and 
" silent prayed to Israel's God ; when lo ! an angel 
44 from the fields of light entered the house : His 
" form was manhood in the prime, and from his 
" spacious brow shot terrors through the evening 
" shade ! But mild he hailed her — Hail, highly 
" favoured ! said he ; for lo ! thou shalt conceive, and 
" bear a son, and Israel's strength shall be upon his 
" shoulders, and he shall be called Israel's Deliverer. 
" Xow, therefore, drink no wine, and eat not any 
" unclean thing, for he shall be a Xazarite to God. — 
" Then, as a neighbour, when his evening tale is 
" told, departs, his blessing leaving, so seemed he to 
" depart : she wondered with exceeding joy, nor knew 
" he was an angel. Manoa left his fields to sit in the 
<; house, and take his evening's rest from labour — 
" the sweetest time that God has allotted mortal man. 
" He sat, and heard with joy, and praised God, who 
" Israel still doth keep. The time rolled on, and 
" Israel groaned oppressed. The sword was bright, 
" while the ploughshare rusted, till hope grew feeble, 



96 POETICAL SKETCHES. 

" and was ready to give place to doubting ; then 
" prayed Manoa : Lord, thy flock is scattered on 
" the hills ! The wolf teareth them : Oppression 
" stretches his rod over our land, our country is 
" ploughed with swords, and reaped in blood ! The 
" echoes of slaughter reach from hill to hill ! Instead 
" of peaceful pipe the shepherd bears a sword ; the 
" ox -goad is turned into a spear ! O when shall our 
" Deliverer come ? The Philistine riots on our flocks, 
" our vintage is gathered by bands of enemies ! 
" Stretch forth thy hand, and save. — Thus prayed 
" Manoa. The aged woman walked into the field, 
" and lo ! again the angel came ! Clad as a traveller 
" fresh risen on his journey. She ran and called her 
" husband, who came and talked with him. O man 
" of God, said he, thou comest from far ! Let us 
" detain thee while I make ready a kid, that thou 
" may est sit and eat, and tell us of thy name and 
" warfare ; that when thy sayings come to pass, we 
" may honour thee. The angel answered, My name 
" is Wonderful ; inquire not after it, seeing it is a 
" secret ; but, if thou wilt, offer an offering unto the 
" Lord." 



CHISWICK PRESS: — PRINTED BY WHITTINOHAM .AND WILKINS, 
TOOKS COURT, UIANCKRY I 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: March 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 
(724)779-2111 



